


The Maker of Roads and Drainer of Marshes

by riventhorn



Category: Outcast - Rosemary Sutcliff
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-24
Updated: 2013-01-24
Packaged: 2017-11-26 17:27:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/652686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riventhorn/pseuds/riventhorn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>He had a marsh for a wife and a straight paved road for a son—that was what they said of Titus Drusus Justinius.</i> The events of the last part of <i>Outcast</i> from Justinius's pov.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Maker of Roads and Drainer of Marshes

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: no copyright infringement intended; no profit is being made from this.
> 
> I've lifted some of the dialogue straight from the book.

He had a marsh for a wife and a straight paved road for a son—that was what they said of Titus Drusus Justinius. Some days in Justinius’s life, this had been an ill thing. Tonight, though, he was thankful that he had spent most of his waking hours down at the Rhee Wall in the Marsh, returning to the steading late. If he had arrived at an earlier hour, he would have already been sitting before the fire with a bowl of Cordaella’s hot soup in hand. He would not have found the boy, not until the next morning, when it would have been too late.

As it was, dusk had fallen when he rode Antares up the hill. Servius came out to meet him and as they neared the threshold, Justinius stopped, his eye caught by a huddled shape lying just outside the pool of light falling from the window. 

“A runaway slave by the looks of him, sir,” Servius said, drawing near. His lantern cast its brightness on the figure, revealing a young man, gaunt and filthy. 

“Aye, poor wretch,” Justinius replied, crouching down. “And he has been on the run over long, it seems.” He started to reach out a hand, heart heavy at the thought that he might find the lad dead. 

But their voices must have roused the boy for he suddenly jerked upright. His expression minded Justinius of a fox caught in a trap—terrified, helpless, unable to comprehend why this pain and fear should have struck it down. “I’ll go away—I’ll—oh, don’t give me up,” the boy pleaded, “not back to the galleys!”

He started to pitch forward again as the strength of this last, desperate appeal left him. Justinius caught him and was going to rest the boy against his knees, but the lad cried out in pain and tore away. The light fell more fully on his back, revealing a hideous pattern of welts and the bloody marks of the lash.

“Great God Mithras! Look at his back!—oh, look at this, Servius, he’s been scourged.” Justinius tried to ease the boy onto the ground, but he began struggling, words pouring from his thirst-ravaged throat, begging not to be returned to the galleys. How the boy had made it this far, in such a state, Justinius could scarce imagine. But he _was_ here and needed help. That was the main thing—the rest could wait. Justinius had seen men on the edge of death before and knew the signs. 

Justinius gripped the boy’s shoulder, trying to steady him and make him understand. “Listen; there is nothing to be afraid of. You are not going back to the galleys.”

The boy calmed a little at his touch, gave a last, despairing whimper, and then slumped down, unconscious. 

“Quickly, Servius. We must get him inside.”

Together, they picked him up, trying to avoid touching the open wounds on his back. Cordaella met them at the door and took in the scene with her usual imperturbability, going to fetch water and cloths and salve. 

It wasn’t until they had the boy laid out on a cot that Justinius got a good look at his face. He stilled and then slowly reached out to push back the tangle of matted hair on the boy’s forehead. Was it—could it be? 

How many times over the years had he thought of the slave in Publius Piso’s house? The slave whose face had born such a startling likeness to his dead wife’s, the slave who had turned his thoughts in such wild, unfounded directions. What if the tribe had lied to him, what if the cubling had not died? 

He had always been methodical. Careful. Calm. A Maker of Roads and Drainer of Marshes had need of such qualities. But that night, after the supper party had broken up, after the wretched slave had been dragged off to a cell, all his steadiness deserted him. He had spent the hours until dawn pacing and wondering, the slave’s face still so clear in his mind. The scene played out for him again and again—the slave wrestled to the ground after flinging the wine in Glaucus’s face; the angry, sullen expression; his height and short-cropped, gold-brown hair. And he was to be sent to the salt mines.

By morning, Justinius had known that he must get the boy. But he had returned only to find that the boy had escaped in the night, and the Watch was after him. Glaucus had been in a foul mood. But Justinius had enough gold, as well as words about an incident that Glaucus would not have wanted to come to his father’s ears, that Glaucus agreed to sell the boy. 

“I cannot see why you want him,” Glaucus had said, pale with anger. “If he is ever brought back to heel, you will not find him any easier to deal with.” 

Justinius had waited anxiously for word, but the boy had vanished, and at last he had been forced to board the ship waiting to take him back to Britain. 

_I should have waited longer,_ he thought now, as he cleaned the blood and dirt off the boy. _I should have searched for you. I should never have left you to this barbarity._

The boy’s breath wheezed in his chest, and Cordaella shook her head, looking up from where she was heating some milk over the fire. 

“I fear he will not live to see the dawn,” she said softly. 

“He will.” Justinius eased the boy’s head into his lap, taking the bowl of milk that she handed him. “Take a little of this, now,” he murmured, coaxing some of the milk between the boy’s cracked lips and then stroking his throat so he swallowed. The boy coughed and moved fitfully. Justinius stroked his brow, waiting until he settled before trying to get a little more of the milk into him. 

He managed to get him to take a few spoonfuls before lowering the boy’s head back to the pillow. There was little he could do for the whip marks, so he turned to his wrist and the raw shackle gall that marred it. He cleaned it and bandaged it, then looked back at the boy’s face. Perhaps it was the slave he had tried to free—perhaps it was his son. And if not, he still needed Justinius’s care. He had been cruelly used and driven to the utmost limit of endurance. No creature should have to experience such pain. 

It would not be easy for the boy, to come back from this. 

“Live this night and make it to the morning,” Justinius said to him, wiping a warm cloth across his brow. “Then we shall deal with what comes after.”

*

The boy still drew breath when Justinius heard the early morning calls of the birds down in the Marsh. For his part, he felt unutterably weary, wearier than any night he had spent directing the building of the wall. Indeed, he had fallen asleep once while sitting next to the boy, rousing only when Servius came in with more wood. 

“I shall watch over him, while you be gone,” Cordaella promised as he buckled on his helmet. He must go back to the Marsh. The work could not wait, nor did he want to encourage the questions that would be asked if the Commander did not come down to the wall. 

“You will send word immediately if—” 

She nodded. “There is life in him yet, though, the poor lamb. He took a little more milk not this hour past.”

“His back—”

“I know.” Cordaella urged him towards the door. “We will do what we can, and then it will be in the hands of the gods.”

All that long day, he expected to see Servius, coming with word that the boy had died. He left the Marsh unconscionably early and his men wondered at it, but Justinius was past caring. He rode hard back to the steading and had to compose himself a moment before he could open the door. 

Servius intercepted him. “He lives, but the fever has set in. Cordaella is with him and says you must eat something before all else, not having touched your supper last night.”

So he ate swiftly, not tasting the food, and then went to the boy. He was sweaty, his breathing too fast, the skin of his back swollen and inflamed. Cordaella was giving him some medicine—a pungent, stomach-turning draught. 

“Go take some rest,” Justinius said to her. “I will take over here.” 

“He is very weak,” Cordaella said, giving him a bowl of cool water, steeped with herbs. “And he needs strength to fight the fever. But do not be worried,” she added. “We have the strength to do so for him, yes?”

Justinius nodded, sitting by the boy and holding one of his hands for a moment before turning to his bandaged wrist and tending to it. He did what he could for the inflamed cuts on his back and managed to get him to take some weak wine. Then he settled by his side, smoothing his rough palm over the boy’s hair. There was nothing more he could do, but he did not like to leave him alone. He sensed that this boy had been too often alone, bereft of kindness and comfort. 

Despite the medicine Cordaella had given him, the boy was restless, muttering and tossing about on the cot. Sometimes clear words emerged, and he spoke often to a “Jason.” Piecing together the fragments, Justinius guessed that this Jason had been on the galley with the boy, perhaps chained next to him. 

“It is all right, now,” Justinius said, holding the boy down gently as he thrashed about. It would do his back no good to have the wounds aggravated like this. And the boy needed to rest and sleep. “Be still. You will not go back to the galleys. You will never be chained again.”

“ _Jason_.” The boy bucked against Justinius’s hold and then slumped down, shivering. Wetting a cloth, Justinius sponged the sweat off his face and neck. 

It went on for long hours—a few moments of quiet for the boy and then another bout of fever-induced dreams that set him twisting and whimpering. Cordaella came back midway through the long vigil and tried to get him to go take some sleep, but Justinius waved her away. “I will stay with him this night.”

Dawn was nearing, the dark hours growing thin and tired, when the boy woke. He started up on a cry of “Jason!”, fever-bright eyes staring wildly about. 

“It is well with Jason,” Justinius said, trying to calm him. “Lie still now.”

The boy blinked up at him, brow furrowing. Recognition cleared his face for a moment, but then the fear came back. “I never turned robber!” he cried. “I only ran away because he said he would sell me into the salt-mines! You heard him—you were there—”

“So it _is_ you.” The boy tried to get up, and Justinius held him down. “Yes, I was there; I heard him. Lie still now.”

The boy panted for breath, continuing to speak, trying to explain. Justinius hushed him. “All this you shall tell me at another time. Not now. Now it is the time for sleep.”

The terror remained in the boy’s eyes. “Your soldiers are down yonder—I saw them. You’ll not—you’ll not—” His hands scrabbled at Justinius, begging for mercy. 

To see any man thus, so cowed and broken—Justinius swallowed against the sorrow and caught up the boy’s hands. “What is your name?”

“Beric,” the boy replied.

“Then listen, Beric; the soldiers down yonder have nothing to do with you, nor you with them. Stop being afraid; there is nothing to be afraid of.” He kept the boy’s hands in his and spoke quietly, but firmly. And slowly, slowly, some of the coiled tension left Beric. He kept his eyes fixed on Justinius’s, and Justinius smiled a little. “Try to trust me.”

Beric’s eyes searched his face, looking for a lie. Justinius held still, not breaking his gaze. At last, Beric sighed deeply and sank back onto the cot. This time a real sleep came over him, a deep, healing sleep. 

Justinius kept hold of his hands. “Beric,” he whispered, saying the name again. “Are you mine, cub?” He thought of the way Beric had quieted under his touch and voice. “Whether by blood or not, you have a hold on me, I think.” He smiled again and touched the boy’s brow. “Will I be able to hold you here with me? You will be wild for a good time yet, I should think.” A misplaced word or glance might send Beric back into the night. They would need to be careful with him, at first, until he came to believe that kindness and gentleness might have a place in his world again.

*

By the next evening, the fever had broken, and the next night after that, Justinius stayed in his quarters at the base camp, confident that Cordaella had matters well in hand. And he had to admit that he wanted to put off speaking to Beric again. When he finally heard Beric’s full story—what would it reveal? That thought, along with the work at the wall, kept him in the Marsh for the rest of the week. Servius came down one afternoon, to tell him that Beric had woken two days past and was now eating meat and broth and had even risen from his cot to go outside for a few hours. 

“Skittish he is, sir, like a new colt,” Servius said. “And none too certain of me. I think he looks for you, sir, and wants your voice.” 

“In good time. I have matters here to attend to,” Justinius replied. This was true, though at heart he delayed because he was not sure how to handle his next meeting with Beric. But no—he should not leave the boy alone, waiting and wondering. If he wanted more than a straight road for a son, he must return to the steading and see for himself how Beric fared.

So the next night he took the familiar road up the hill. He was quite taken aback upon entering the house to find a tall lad waiting for him, dressed and clean-shaven, his gold-brown hair trimmed and neat. In the lamplight, for a moment, he looked so like Murna that Justinius’s breath caught in his throat and he halted, trembling. 

But then it passed, leaving a nervous boy, eyes filled with hopeful entreaty. 

“So. This is famously well.” Justinius stepped forward, though he noted that Beric flinched, just a little, and so he did not try to touch him. “You must be as tough as a mountain pony!” 

When he asked Beric to let him look at his back and wrist, Beric obeyed readily, accepting Justinius’s ministrations. He looked on what Justinius did with such an air of rapt confusion, as though he could not imagine anyone treating him so gently, that it was all Justinius could do not to draw Beric into his arms and hold him. But they were not at such a point yet. Better to proceed slowly and let Beric get used to friendly gestures and kind words.

Justinius sat by the fire then, unsure how to broach the subject of Beric’s past. Beric settled next to him, his shoulder not quite touching Justinius’s leg. It was peaceful and for a moment, Justinius thought that perhaps he would not ask questions. He was not sure, suddenly, that he wanted to have the death of his son confirmed. Perhaps it would be better to always have that hope, that possibility alive.

But he could not be easy with that, and so he asked Beric to tell him the tale. It was not a happy one. Beric had suffered much, and for no reason, the victim of evil chance and the cruelty of men. And then he told the story of his birth, and Justinius knew, at last, that this was not his son. A sharp pang of loss surprised him, and he had to stand and go to the door, looking out into the night so that Beric would not see the tears in his eyes. 

The moment passed, and he turned back to Beric, sitting next to him again. Beric looked confused, and he drew a little nearer to Justinius, almost putting a hand on his arm before drawing it back. It was in his heart that Beric had been glad to see him return from the Marsh that evening. That perhaps Beric would be glad to see him on every day hereafter. 

“You have seen Maia and the foal?” he asked.

Beric nodded and a faint smile touched his face an instant before fading. It was clear that he was quite taken with the horses, judging by the way he spoke of them, passionate and almost joyfully.

“You love horses, don’t you?”

“I have lived among them and worked with them, after the way of my foster kind, all my life until—a while back.”

Justinius looked into the fire for a long minute and then made his decision. “Stay and help me break Maia’s foal, and the others that there will be, after him.”

Beric assented, but the shadows were still there in his eyes. Well, it would take time. Like the Rhee Wall, slowly pushing back the sea. It would be many days before the fresh wounds on Beric’s mind and body had faded, and longer still before the scars ceased to trouble him.

*

Justinius found out just how tenuous his hold on Beric was not three days later when he returned from Portus Lemanis and the quarries to find Cordaella in a state, all aflutter over Beric finding out that they had mistook him for Justinius’s son. He had disappeared for most of the day and only returned lately with a mongrel dog and a dark, despairing mood. 

“I thought he had run off,” Cordaella exclaimed. “To see him standing in the door—I was never so relieved in all my life. But he is still of a mind to leave. He thinks that you do not want him, now that you know he is not your son.”

“He has been abandoned before this,” Justinius replied. “It is easy for him to think it could happen again.”

“You can’t let him leave, the poor child. We nursed the life back into his body. He is ours— _yours_. You must make him see.”

He laid a hand on her arm. “I will do my best. But we cannot make him feel like we are trying to chain him again. He has known too much of that.”

He found Beric huddled in the straw of the byre, the little dog at his side. They were very alike, he thought to himself as he carefully moved a hand over the dog’s leg, checking to see if a bone was broken. Both had been ill used by the world, both clung to the promise of kindness and love. But only Beric carried clear memories of all the time before—all the times that he had trusted men and come to grief for it. 

When Beric was convinced that his dog was not hurt badly, Justinius managed to get him to come back to the house. Beric was bitter and although Justinius assured him that he did not want him to go, that he should like Beric to stay with him and showed him the proof that Beric was free and no longer a slave, Beric was slow to trust men again.

But he stayed. He stayed and two days after, when they were out in the pasture clearing scrub, Justinius put his hand on Beric’s shoulder, and Beric leaned into the touch without flinching or drawing away. 

He would need to watch him closely, though, and speak openly to him. He must be sure to show him affection, for Beric would not be one to ask for it. He must treat him with care and consideration. 

But a Maker of Roads and Drainer of Marshes must always be careful and steady and calm. Yes, it was fitting that Beric had come to him. 

He knew the truth of that on the day when the Legate came to the Marsh and encountered Beric. 

“Sir, I present to you one of my household, Beric,” he said. 

“Your son?’ the Legate asked. 

Justinius looked at Beric, covered in mud from hauling rock but standing straight and proud. Yet there was a sudden tension in his body, and he half-turned towards Justinius, waiting on his answer.

“Only since the spring,” Justinius said quietly, and the tension in Beric eased. 

As he drew the Legate away to look at one of the sluice gates, Justinius glanced back at Beric, who was moving towards his pony. Already the slant of his shoulders, the sound of his voice, the curve of his rare smile were as familiar to Justinius as though he had known them all his life. Like a well-placed stone or the smooth, level surface of a road, it was good, this thing that they had built between them.


End file.
